The air turns chilly as I unpack in the late afternoon. I manage to ignite a small fire in the wood stove and turn on the small heater. I set up my newest camping gadget, a CO2 detector. At one point in my life I became paranoid about CO2 poisoning but only recently figured out I can travel with a CO2 detector and live in more peace around wood stoves and propane heaters.  I make dinner out of the yogurt and humus that I bought on the way here—two favorites that I cannot get in our local store. I discover sporadic 3G phone service. No problem. I came to Cross Ranch State Park for some pre-Christmas down time, and I will read, write, and walk in the not-yet-winter woods. No Internet required. Tonight, though, I pile a sleeping bag and quilts on the futon sofa. I stop feeding the wood stove and snuggle in with all the night noises in the dark, eerie woods. One sounds like a man, chopping wood outside. A ghost? Sleep arrives before I ponder the possibility.

I slept on the lower futon, used the upper bunk for clothes, etc

CO detector, now I am safe from any woodstove mayhem.

At 6 AM the temperature inside the yurt is 49 degrees, but I am warm in all my fleecy sleeping layers. After feeding Tango, I add wood to the stove and soon the inside temperature in 80 degrees. Less wood! Damper down. I will find the right balance.

On day two, I am still sluggish but manage to read and walk along the Missouri River for a few miles. The Autumn woods, grasses, leaves, shrubs, everything in sight, are a shade of brown: tan, beige, brown, ecru, sand, wheat, camel. No snow yet, just the stark, tweedy woods standing naked.  I come here because I want to see what is out there at this time of year. I refuse to accept that a brown world is void of fascinating life.

Bat Box

Plover Island

I see leafy squirrel nests and a dome-shaped bird nest balanced carefully between branches. It is empty now but could be a winter storm refuge for my chickadee that checks on me each day . Nature is a clever planner, in that nests, tree cavities, and ground burrows are used more than once, by more than one critter. I touch the tree bark, looking for crevices that might hold insect larva or a stash of spider webbing that will be used for next year’s nest building. I wander closer to the river and see a sandbar where endangered plovers nest in the summer. Small flocks of Canada Geese migrate overhead.  A cold wind arrives from the west and the thought of my warm yurt lures me back.

I try baking on top of the wood stove. I pull out my cast iron pot and mix a package of muffin mix from the dollar store. I put the batter in an aluminum loaf pan, place the pan inside. The stove was not super-hot when I started, so baking took 2.5 hours, but the result was so good that even Tango approved. More on my cast iron experiments in another post!

Night falls again in my warm little abode. I curl up in the quilt and read. When I finally lay down, I enjoy the yurt skylight, where I can see stars and ghostly tree branches.

View from the round skylight

Day three and I am restless to explore the historic sites nearby. This area on the Missouri is the ancestral Mandan and Hidasta land. Historic sites tell the story and show how the original locals constructed lodges. The restored forts, including Fort Mandan, remind me that the end of the story was brutal for the Mandans and Hidastas. On cue, a wicked wind comes from the west and rages for 24 hours. I am accustomed to gale-force winds, but Holy Hurricane. This is the roaring sound of an oncoming train, amplified and echoed in the trees, and it never ends.

The angle of these grasses outside the yurt gives a sense of how hard the wind blew, nonstop for 24 hours.

 

Dusting of snow in the morning

The next morning I look out the yurt window and find snow, just a light dusting of powdered sugar on the ground and picnic table. I bring in more firewood. A half hour later I look outside and see that the snow is accumulating.  I bring in more wood and I feel the heat spreading around the yurt. Thud bang on the skylight, which scares Tango and me for a split second. A falling branch hits the skylight hard then bounces off. A few jeweled flakes of snow sift in where the branch hit, but then stop.The wind continues, and the cold it carries pierces through my layers like long needles. Hiking is impossible. I decide to drive 35 miles back down to Bismarck. Bookstores! Great coffee and a bit of Christmas shopping. Back at the Yurt, more wood stove cooking experiments.

When the wind finally blew off into Minnesota, I witnessed an amazing event: enormous numbers of migrating Canada Geese flew overhead in their V-formation for the next 3 days. Thousands upon thousands must have waited a bit further north for the windy storm to pass. During this time, the night temperatures dived to the teens, and the ponds and lakes began to freeze along the edges. Soon, their food will be locked up in the deep freeze of a northern plains winter. Time for the dawdlers to skedaddle.

The migration was miraculous, but something else happened that added a most magical and divine element to my experience. Each afternoon, some of the Canada Geese circled around the river, singing a chorus of squawking music that amplified in the river corridor. This continued until an hour after dark, when they suddenly settled on the sand bars for the night. Turns out, my little yurt was overlooking a migrating geese motel on the river. In the mornings, I now awoke to the same squawking music, lyrical in its own way. Sometimes fog drifted on the river, adding to the dramatic scene.

 

Between goose/geese watching, Tango and I hike all the trails in the park. We flush out a Bald Eagle who was roosting next to the river in an old cottonwood tree. I see only the bouncing furry tails of two white-tailed deer running off. This is hunting season and I hear a few rifle shots. In fact, hunters are the only other wanderers I see, besides park staff. I amuse myself by looking for hints of color when I am out and find it in the pink sunrises and cranberry sunsets.

Sunday morning! I wake up knowing that I must phase out of living in fleece tops and long underwear leggings. Pack, rustle, clean, sweep. Like the geese, Tango and I head southeast into the brown world.

 

Note: When I arrived, this pond was open and blue. When I left it was covered by a thin sheet of ice.

Soon the ice will be 3-4 feet thick: